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ON THE DEATH OF
SIR ANTHONY VANDYKE,
THE FAMOUS PAINTER.
Vandyke is dead; but what bold Muse shall dare
(Though poets in that word with painters share)
T' express her sadness? Poesy must become
An art like Painting here, an art that 's dumb.
Let's all our solemn grief in silence keep,
Like some sad picture which he made to weep,
Or those who saw 't; for none his works could view
Unmov'd with the same passions which he drew.
His pieces so with their live objects strive,
That both or pictures seem, or both alive.
Nature herself, amaz'd, does doubting stand,
Which is her own and which the painter's hand;
And does attempt the like with less success,
When her own work in twins she would express.
His all-resembling pencil did out-pass
The mimic imagery of looking-glass.
Nor was his life less perfect than his art,
Nor was his hand less erring than his heart.
There was no false or fading colour there,
The figures sweet and well-proportion'd were.
Most other men, set next to him in view,
Appear'd more shadows than the men he drew.
(Though poets in that word with painters share)
T' express her sadness? Poesy must become
An art like Painting here, an art that 's dumb.
Let's all our solemn grief in silence keep,
Like some sad picture which he made to weep,
Or those who saw 't; for none his works could view
Unmov'd with the same passions which he drew.
His pieces so with their live objects strive,
That both or pictures seem, or both alive.
Nature herself, amaz'd, does doubting stand,
Which is her own and which the painter's hand;
And does attempt the like with less success,
When her own work in twins she would express.
His all-resembling pencil did out-pass
The mimic imagery of looking-glass.
Nor was his life less perfect than his art,
Nor was his hand less erring than his heart.
There was no false or fading colour there,
The figures sweet and well-proportion'd were.
Most other men, set next to him in view,
Appear'd more shadows than the men he drew.
